


keep making trouble (til you find what you love)

by squadrickchestopher



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Arguing, Bickering, Canon-Typical Violence, Deaf Clint Barton, Frenemies, Hurt Clint Barton, Kidnapping, Kissing, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Sassy Bucky Barnes, Sassy Clint Barton, So much bickering, Tumblr Prompt, assholes to lovers, but neither does bucky, clint doesn't know what to do with his feelings, they'll get there at some point
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:28:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24825340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squadrickchestopher/pseuds/squadrickchestopher
Summary: “I am paying attention,” Clint says, glaring at him. He’s so done with this guy. “Your name is Cale Montague. You wear sunglasses both at nightandinside, which means you’re doubly the tool I thought you were. Your first name is also a vegetable, so I’m guessing your parents were either hippies or super rich. You like to hit poor, defenseless guys, and your suit is very much a last season kind of thing. That about cover it?”Montague looks a little nonplussed at this. Behind him, Barnes’s shoulders are shaking with muffled laughter. Clint stifles his own grin and waits for an answer.After a moment, Montague pinches the bridge of his nose and says, “This is going to be a long night, isn’t it?”
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 64
Kudos: 463
Collections: Bucky Barnes Bingo 2020





	keep making trouble (til you find what you love)

**Author's Note:**

> written for (and beta'ed by) the lovely clintscoffeepot, who asked for the prompt "don't you dare walk out that door."
> 
> Also filling my "reluctant teamwork" square for BBB.

Clint is dozing on the couch—his first real sleep in about four days—when the door to the safe house slams open. He cracks one eye to see Barnes storm in, wearing a thunderous expression. “Keep it down, would you? I’m trying to sleep here.”

Barnes rolls his eyes and throws something at Clint. “Read that.”

It’s a newspaper. Clint doesn’t even have to open it to see the headline splayed across the top, in big bold letters. It takes him a moment to mentally translate the Italian, but then he reads—

**EDWARD WAGNER FOUND DEAD**

“Shit,” Clint says, sitting up. “When did this happen?”

“Last night,” Barnes growls. “Get up. We have to move. They’re onto us.”

“What about his family?”

“Nat says she’s got them. We need to go.”

Clint gets up and grabs his bow, slinging the quiver over his back. “Got a plan?”

“Extraction point B,” Barnes says. “Fifteen minutes.”

Clint thinks. “Was that the tower, or the library?”

“For Christ's sake, Barton, it’s the statue. Don’t you _ever_ listen in briefings?”

“Only when I have to.”

Barnes mutters some Russian that sounds like _“fucking useless pigeon,”_ which Clint is pretty sure is a dig at him. He makes a face at Barnes and grabs the motorcycle keys out of spite. “Fine. See you there.”

It’s a long and cold ride to the statue. Clint really doesn’t care for motorcycles, but making Barnes take a taxi to the extraction point is totally worth the numb fingers and sore muscles. He ditches the bike a few blocks away and leaves the keys in the ignition, then walks the last bit. Barnes is already there, looking extremely pissed off.

“Where’s my damn bike?” he demands as soon as Clint is in earshot.

Clint shrugs at him. “Should keep better track of your things, Barnes.”

“ _You_ stole—" he starts, but then a gunshot rings out around them, and he ducks, yanking Clint to the ground with him. “Stay low,” he hisses, looking around.

“Thanks, my first instinct was to stand up and wave my arms around.”

“Can you shut your mouth for two seconds?” Barnes is looking at something in the distance. “Over there, look. They’ve got a sniper. We’re compromised.”

“God, you’re dramatic.” Clint shoves his arm off and turns over. “Come on, there’s some cover over here.” He starts to crawl that way, only to be stopped by a bullet hitting the ground two inches from his head. “Alright, never mind.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, they didn’t hit me. I think that was a warning shot.” Clint slides his arm forward again, and another bullet lands a few feet away. “I mean, either that or they suck at sniping.”

“Stop antagonizing them,” Barnes says. He carefully pushes up to his knees, then starts to stand. Another bullet hits the ground, leaving a mark on the concrete, and he sinks back down. “Okay. Warning shots. Stay still.”

Clint rolls his eyes. “This is just great. How did they know about the extraction point?”

“Maybe they followed you.”

“ _Maybe they followed you_ ,” Clint mocks. “They didn’t fucking follow me, I know how to check for a tail. No one followed me, and I ditched the bike six blocks west of here, so if they were tracking that—”

“Well, they didn’t follow me!”

There’s a moment where they look at each other, suddenly aware of what the answer is, and neither one is happy about it. Clint is about to say something when two black cars screech to a halt in front of them. A man in a suit and a dark pair of sunglasses steps out of the first one, while at least six or seven heavily armed people in full tactical gear get out of the second. They fan out, surrounding the statue.

“Barnes and Barton,” the guy in sunglasses says loudly, and Clint winces.

“Compromised,” Barnes mutters.

Clint can’t even accuse him of being dramatic this time. “Yep.”

Barnes sighs. “I blame you.”

“You blame me for everything. You blamed me when you tripped in the shower yesterday.”

“Because you left soap everywhere!”

“It’s a shower, dumbass, there’s supposed to be soap in there.”

“Would it kill you to rinse it down the drain so the next person doesn’t kill themselves?”

“And miss out on you shrieking like a little girl while falling over? Never.”

The guy in the suit is watching them, a curious expression on his face. “If I might interrupt,” he says loudly, and Clint turns to look at him. “I would like you both to come with me, please.”

“I bet you would,” Clint says. “But you know, I just got comfortable here, and I’d really rather not get up.”

“ _Now_ , gentlemen.”

Barnes doesn’t move. Neither does Clint.

The man sighs. “While I need to have you both alive, I do not necessarily need you unharmed,” he says. “So I suggest you come before I get impatient.”

They still don’t move.

Another sigh. “SHIELD is not coming,” he says. “We have given them reliable intel that you are both waiting at extraction point A.”

Clint frowns. “Is that the cafe, or the hotel?”

“It’s the bank,” Barnes and the guy say together, both sounding a little irritated.

“Oh, alright then,” Clint says with a nod. “Good to know.”

Barnes rolls his eyes. “Honest to god, do you _purposely_ not pay attention?”

“Why would I? Apparently the whole rest of the world pays attention for me.” Clint looks at the guy and quickly calculates their chances of getting out of here without being shot. They’re not great.

The guy raises his hand and snaps his fingers. A moment later, a bullet strikes the ground between Clint’s knees, spraying sparks up onto his pants. “Hey!”

“That was your last warning,” the man says. “Get in the car. Now.”

Well, it’s looking like they don’t really have a choice anymore. Clint glares at the guy and gets up. “Come on,” he says to Barnes. “Our chariot awaits, apparently.”

“Good choice,” the man says, waving a hand. A couple of the tac guys come forward, quickly stripping them of their weapons.

Clint winces as one of them roughly examines his bow. “If you break that, I’ll break your fingers.”

“He will,” Barnes says, murder-glaring at the guy patting him down. The guy pauses mid-pat and backs up, looking terrified. Clint stifles a laugh. “He’s obsessed with that thing. He even sings to it before tucking it into its case.”

“That was _one_ time, asshole!”

“Still happened. I have video evidence to prove it, too.”

“What? No you don’t!”

Barnes smirks at him as the guys handcuff him. “Don’t worry, I haven’t shown it to anyone else. I’m saving it.”

“If you ever—” Clint starts, but then he’s being forced into zip ties, and pulled over to a car. “Not the trunk,” he says quickly. “Not the trunk, come on, not the—!”

They stuff him into the trunk, because of course they do. And then to add insult to injury, they dump Barnes in there too, right on top of him. Clint wheezes as they force his legs in, then slam the lid. Someone hits the top of it, and the car pulls away.

“Get off me,” Clint says, kicking him as much as he can. “Seriously, you weigh like eight million pounds. You’re crushing me.”

Barnes rolls a little bit, but not enough. “Are you calling me fat?”

“Solid, maybe. Hefty. Like a tank. A great, big, fat tank. Get _off_.”

“We’re in a _trunk_ , Barton, you think I’m doing this on purpose? Why don’t you move? You’ve got more space back that way.”

Clint does his best. It’s a roomy trunk, all things considered, but not really roomy enough for two grown men. “Would be easier if you weren’t laying on me.”

Barnes makes an exasperated sound. “You complain so much, you know that?”

“My complaints are directly proportional to the amount of bullshit that happens to us.” He finally manages to extract himself from underneath Barnes and rolls, giving them a little more space to work with. It takes some rearranging and a lot of cursing, but after awhile they both end up in semi-comfortable positions.

“Okay,” Barnes says. “So we’re being kidnapped.”

“No, really? What clued you in?”

“Fuck off, Barton. I’m just trying to lay out what we know.”

“Fine.” Clint shifts onto his side to look at him. “Guy we’ve been following for the last week is dead. Presumably, the asshole in sunglasses out there is the one who killed him, or at least had a hand in it. He’s grabbing us either because he thinks we have information, he thinks he can use us as leverage for something, or he wants to do some horrible gruesome torture thing to us. Probably all three.”

Barnes nods. “That’s pretty much it.”

“Great. Glad we’re on the same page. Use your fancy arm to bust us out of here, would you?”

“Can’t.” Barnes rolls slightly so Clint can see the handcuffs. Or rather, the magcuffs. Great, big bulky things, purposely made to hold super-soldiers. There’s no breaking out of those, not without help. _Well, shit_.

He rolls back. “What about you?”

“Zip ties,” Clint says. “Four of them. They’re smart, or at the very least, they’re not stupid.” It’s annoying, really. He’s pretty good with most restraints—thank you, circus days—but four zip ties is a little beyond his skill set. 

“Great,” Barnes sighs. “So I’m stuck in here with you until we stop.”

“Fuck off,” Clint says. “Not like you’re a real picnic either.”

“I don’t whine so much.”

“No, you just glower at everything.” Barnes narrows his eyes, and Clint snickers. “Like that. You’re literally doing it right now. Like you’re trying to kill me with your eyes. You think it’s scary, but it’s not.” It is, but he’ll never admit it.

“Christ, you’re annoying.”

“It’s a talent.” Clint looks up at the ceiling. “So, when they open the trunk, do we come out kicking? Or do we roll with this to see where it takes us?”

Barnes shrugs. “Do what you want. I’m gonna get at least one of them in the nose.”

“That’s my boy.” Clint stretches out his leg, trying to ease the cramping that’s starting.

Barnes makes an annoyed sound and moves out of the way. “Knock it off.”

“My leg hurts.”

“Doesn’t mean you have to kick me.”

“I’m not kicking you, I’m stretching.” He shakes his leg out, then nails Barnes in the shin. “ _That’s_ kicking you.”

“You fucking—” Barnes kicks him back. Clint bites off a pained yell as Barnes smirks at him. “You started it.”

“Gonna end it too,” Clint says, kicking him again.

A scuffle ensues. Neither of them has arms to work with, but Barnes is fast, and Clint is creative. The cramped space isn’t helpful, but Clint manages to get in a few good shots anyway before Barnes literally rolls on top of him. He resorts to biting at that point.

The trunk lid opens suddenly, startling them both into stillness. Three of the tac team members are standing there, guns pointed and faces incredulous. Clint removes his teeth from Barnes’s arm and says, “I’m sorry, are we disturbing you?”

“What the fuck are you guys doing?”

“He’s being a dick,” Barnes says. “Can you put him in a different trunk?”

“I was here first, Terminator. This is my trunk. Find your own.”

“Stop it,” the tac guy says. “Both of you. You’re shaking the whole car.”

Clint snickers. “That’s what she said?”

Barnes kicks him again. “Shut the fuck up.” To the guys, he says, “Seriously. Take him somewhere else before I kill him.”

“No, take him!”

They take neither. Instead, they produce more zip ties, and tie Clint’s legs, and then Barnes’s, and then just to be assholes, they also tie the two of them together, back to back. “There,” the tac guy says with a smirk, and he shuts the lid again. There’s the sound of a car door, and then the car starts moving again.

“Yeah,” Barnes says after a few minutes, sarcasm practically oozing from him. “This is _much_ better.”

“Shut up,” Clint growls, wriggling uselessly against him. “Should’ve asked if they had duct tape.”

“You could just stop _talking_ , and that would accomplish the same thing.”

“Why are you always such an asshole?”

“Why do you always insist on making things difficult?”

Clint doesn’t really have an answer for that. He did, technically, start this last round. “Yeah, I guess that’s a fair point.” He flexes his fingers, then adds, “Sorry I kicked you.”

Barnes is quiet at that. After a long moment, he says, “Wow.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“ _What?_ ”

“I just didn’t know that word was in your vocabulary.”

“Oh—” Clint kicks him again, even though he can’t get leverage to make it hurt. “Don’t be a bitch about it.”

Barnes snickers. “This is going to make getting out of here difficult.”

“I thought you liked a challenge.”

“That’s true.”

Clint sighs. “You know what’s really sad?”

“The fact that you sing lullabies to your weapons?”

“Oh my god, Barnes, that was _one time,_ and I was drunk as hell.”

“Still happened. Still have video.”

Clint shakes his head. “I’m going to kill you for that.”

“You’re welcome to try,” Barnes says. “But anyway. What’s really sad?”

“This isn’t even the worst birthday I’ve ever had. This is actually one of the better ones.”

Barnes is quiet for a moment, then says, “It’s your birthday?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh.” He sounds surprised. “I didn’t know.”

“I don’t make a big deal out of them.” Clint flexes his fingers again, a little worried about the way they’re tingling. “I was just planning on having a beer or something tonight.”

“Tell you what.” Barnes shifts against him, grunting in pain. “If we get out of this alive, I’ll buy you a round.”

“Careful, Barnes. If I listen past the depressing subtext, it almost sounds like you’re being nice to me.”

“I’m nice to you a lot, you know. Every time I don’t smash your head in for annoying me? That’s me being nice.”

“Aww, that’s so sweet of you.”

“Shut the fuck up, Barton.”

They lay in silence, broken only by the faint strains of music and the grind of asphalt under the wheels. Clint stares into the darkness and debates if he should stay awake to talk to Barnes, or if it’s better to take a nap before the inevitable gruesome torture starts.

“Happy birthday,” Barnes says after awhile. “Sorry you’re spending it in here with me.”

Clint shrugs. “All things considered,” he says, “there’s worse places and worse company.”

“Careful, Barton.” Clint can hear the smile in his voice. “If I listen past the subtext, it almost sounds like you’re being nice to me.”

Clint laughs. “You’re imagining things,” he says. “Absolutely, totally imagining things.”

The silence gets a little more comfortable after that. Clint does eventually fall asleep, floating in some kind of half-awake, half-asleep doze. He only wakes up when Barnes awkwardly throws an elbow into him. “Hey,” he says. “We stopped. Wake up.”

Clint yawns. “Wasn’t sleeping.”

“Yes you were. I could hear you snoring.”

“I don’t snore, you—”

The trunk opens. “How was the trip?” the sunglasses guy asks with a smirk. “I hope you were comfortable.”

“Oh yeah,” Clint says acidly, turning his head as much as he can. “Being tied to a sarcastic asshole in the trunk is the best way to travel.”

“Definitely,” Barnes adds. “You gonna let us out now, or...?”

Sunglasses guy motions to the tac team, who move in quickly, cutting various zip ties before pulling them out of the trunk. “Easy on the merchandise,” Clint growls as he straightens up. They’re in some kind of garage, with a bunch of classic cars and—

A bag is pulled over his head. Clint groans. “Really?”

“Just taking precautions, Mr. Barnes.”

“I’m not—”

He gets cut off as someone grabs his arm. They’re both manhandled away from the car, then through a door and up some stairs. Clint trips three times before they end up carrying him the rest of the way, despite his kicking and protests otherwise.

They deposit him in an uncomfortable chair and snip the zip ties off. He manages to land one punch before they pretty much mummify him to the chair with a whole bunch of rough rope. Clint twists underneath it, wincing at the burn across his arms. He can probably get out, but it’s going to hurt like a _bitch_. “Cyborg, you still here?”

Behind him, there’s a high-pitched whine, and then the sound of something clanging. “Goddamn you,” Barnes says, and someone utters a low laugh. “Yeah, I’m here. I’m behind you.”

Someone roughly yanks the bag off his head, and Clint blinks in the bright light. The guy with the sunglasses is standing in front of him, a smarmy grin on his face. “Hello, Mr. Barnes.”

“I’m not—” Clint starts again, but the guy ignores him, walking around to the actual Mr. Barnes, who is apparently trying very hard to free his left arm, to the point where he almost clocks Clint in the head when he throws his own back in frustration. “Watch it!”

“You watch it,” Barnes snaps. Clint twists enough to see that they’ve still got the mag cuff on his left arm, and they’re securing it to the chair somehow. “Goddamn you,” Barnes says again, sounding a little worried. Which is not really a good sign.

Sunglasses man nods approvingly at the security measures. “Excellent. Thank you, gentlemen. You can leave us now.”

“I’d love to,” Clint says, “but you tied me to a chair so—"

“Not you.” He waves the tac team out.

Clint looks around the room, trying to figure out where they are. It’s some kind of fancy sitting room, way more classy than anything he’s ever been in. There’s a fireplace, and ridiculously plush rugs on the floor, and pretentious artwork on the walls. It’s the kind of place that Clint’s inner circus brat wants to rob for all it’s worth, and then possibly set it on fire on the way out.

Sunglasses guy clears his throat, and Clint looks at him. “Can I help you?”

“Do you know who I am?”

“No, but if you hum a few bars—”

“Oh my god,” Barnes says, twisting in his own chair. “That’s literally the oldest joke in the world; I can’t _believe_ you just said that out loud.”

Clint sighs. “I can’t help it, I was watching some old cartoons the other day and I absorbed some jokes. Sue me.”

“You still watch cartoons?”

“You don’t? Your Saturday mornings must suck.”

“How old _are_ you?”

“Terminator, you know better than to ask a lady her age.”

“I’m just saying—”

“If you don’t mind,” the sunglasses guy interrupts, and Clint looks up at him again. “Do you know who I am?”

Clint rolls his eyes. “Clearly we don’t,” he says, “or we would have answered the first time.”

The sunglasses guy looks irritated. Then he puffs his chest up. “I,” he says grandly, “am Cale Montague.” He waits, like he’s expecting something. Clint just looks at him. There’s a really awkward silence, and then he says again, “Cale Montague.”

“I have no idea who that is,” Clint says.

Behind him, Barnes sighs. “Business rival to Wagner, remember?”

“Oh, was that his name?”

“Seriously, did you sleep through the _entire_ briefing?”

Clint grins. “I might have.”

He can practically smell the exasperation coming off Barnes. “Okay, that settles it. Next briefing, you’re sitting next to me, and for every second I think you’re not paying attention, I’m going to stab you.” He pauses, then adds, “Just a little bit. Not mortally. Just enough to wake you up.”

Clint laughs outright at that. “Thank you. I’m glad there’s a qualifier to your murderous intentions.”

“Only because I don’t want to risk Widow being pissed at me. She likes you for some reason.”

“Oh. Yeah, okay, that’s fair.”

Montague looks increasingly confused, his gaze bouncing back and forth between Barnes and Clint like he’s watching a tennis match.

“We’re always like this,” Clint assures him. “It’s a mutual hate kind of thing.”

Barnes makes a little noise at this, but Clint is distracted from figuring out what that means by the slap across his face. “Pay attention,” Montague orders.

“I am paying attention,” Clint says, glaring at him. He’s so done with this guy. “Your name is Cale Montague. You wear sunglasses both at night _and_ inside, which means you’re doubly the tool I thought you were. Your first name is also a vegetable, so I’m guessing your parents were either hippies or super rich. You like to hit poor, defenseless guys, and your suit is very much a last season kind of thing. That about cover it?”

Montague looks a little nonplussed at this. Behind him, Barnes’s shoulders are shaking with muffled laughter. Clint stifles his own grin and waits for an answer.

After a moment, Montague pinches the bridge of his nose and says, “This is going to be a long night, isn’t it?”

“Probably,” Clint tells him. “You should let us go now and save yourself the trouble, honestly.”

“I’m afraid I cannot do that.” Montague straightens his shoulders. “So. You are Barnes and he is Barton, correct?”

“Don’t know where you’re getting your intel from,” Clint says. “We’re the Olsen twins. He’s Mary-Kate, I’m Ashley.”

Barnes shifts behind him. “What?”

“Haven’t made it to the nineties yet, I see.”

“Have so. Isn’t that the little girl from _Full House?_ ”

Clint laughs. “The actresses who played her, but yeah. I’m so proud of you for that.”

“You got it wrong, anyway,” Barnes says to the guy. “ _I’m_ Barnes. _He’s_ an irritation of the spirit.”

“Why, Barnes,” Clint says. “That was almost poetic. Did Widow give you that?”

“No, actually, it was one of the SHIELD agents you tried to hit on the other day. I wanted to ask you about that, by the way. Is it a requirement of your personality to flirt with everything on two legs?”

“I don’t flirt with _you_.”

“I don’t want you to. You’re not my type.”

“Shut up, I’m everyone’s type.”

Montague is looking back and forth between them again. “Stop it,” he says. “Both of you. Just...stop it.”

Clint raises an eyebrow. “I’m sorry. Did you want to explain your evil plan to us? Are we interrupting your monologue? Is it _really_ important that we know what a bad guy you are?”

Montague looks increasingly lost for words. After a moment, he throws up his hands. “You know what? You are right. I don’t need to explain anything to you. You will be out of my hair before any of it becomes relevant.” He turns on his heel and walks out the door.

Barnes groans. “Barton, we could’ve—”

“I am _not_ spending my birthday tied to a chair while listening to some tool talk about what a clever bad guy he is. I’m just not. We’re getting out of here, we’re gonna crack some heads along the way, and then we’re gonna contact Nat and tell her there’s a mole in SHIELD.” Clint starts working on his right wrist, which is the loosest of all his bindings.

“Yeah,” Barnes says, sounding worried. “I was thinking that myself.”

Clint nods. He’s been working on it for a while, and none of the conclusions are good so far. A mole is the only thing that makes sense. Someone knew how to get to Wagner, and where to find him and Barnes, and their extraction points. He doesn’t know why they got picked up instead of being killed right off the bat, but he doesn’t really care. Like he said to Barnes, it’s probably either gruesome torture, leverage, or information. No point in sticking around just to find out which one.

He grits his teeth and pulls on his arm, trying to ignore the increasingly raw skin he’s irritating. “Any chance you can get free?”

“No,” Barnes says. “They’ve still got the mag cuffs on, and my left arm is dead. They did something to it.” He sounds pissed about it. Which, fair point. Clint would be too. It’s times like these he’s glad he’s not half cyborg.

He pulls a little harder, blinking back tears. “Where do you think we are?”

“We’re on a boat. It’s docked at some pier.”

Clint looks around. “Wait, really? How do you know that?”

“I was paying attention when they brought us in?”

“I was too,” Clint protests.

“Also, I’m facing the window.”

“You get a window? That’s unfair, I just have a door.” He cranes his neck and twists awkwardly in the chair, which earns him nothing more than a faceful of greasy hair for his efforts. He winces and turns back. “Dude, do you ever wash your hair?”

“I—what?”

“Your hair. It’s gross.”

Barnes throws his head back, knocking into Clint hard enough to make him see stars. “Fuck off, Barton.”

Clint’s eyes are watering again, and he’s not sure if it’s from the head trauma or the fact that he’s slowly shredding his skin off with the ropes. “I was just making a comment.”

“That’s rich, coming from a guy whose hair looks like a haystack. I at least brush mine. Has yours ever even met a comb?”

Clint throws his own head back, which doesn’t help anything about the situation. Still, he can’t help but feel a little flair of satisfaction as Barnes grunts in pain. “Forget I said anything,” he says, then goes back to freeing his arm. “So we’re on a boat, okay. Who’s got a fireplace on a boat?”

“It’s not real. It’s electric.”

He squints at it. “Ah. You’re right.”

They’re quiet after that. Clint blinks away tears and keeps working on his arm. It’s almost out, if he can just get it—

“I don’t hate you,” Barnes says suddenly.

Clint doesn’t answer at first, preoccupied as he is. “You’re just saying that because it’s my birthday,” he finally says back, pausing for a second while he tries not to scream.

“Am not.” Barnes shifts in the chair, then says, “Really, I don’t. I hate working with you sometimes, but you—you’re a good person. And you do your job well, even if you act like an idiot most of the time.”

Huh. Clint absorbs this information while he works on the ropes, trying to slot it into place with everything he thought he knew about Bucky Barnes. “Okay. Good to know, I guess.”

He tugs his arm out a little more. The amount of blood is a little alarming, but at least it’s easing the way some. “I don’t hate you either,” he says, trying hard to keep his voice steady. “For the record. I mean, you’re kind of a dick sometimes, but I like it a little bit.”

Barnes snorts. “You like it when I’m a dick?”

“You’re the only one who’ll sink to my level,” Clint tells him. “Nat says it’s juvenile, but I think it’s entertaining.” He finally works his hand out with a low, pained hiss. “Fuck!”

“You okay? What’s happening?”

“I’m free. Sort of. I got an arm out.”

“Wait, really?”

He sounds way too incredulous for Clint’s liking, and it hurts his pride a little. Clint takes a moment to breathe through the pain, watching the blood slide down his arm. “I can, on occasion, be useful.”

“I never said you couldn’t be.”

“You were implying it.”

Barnes makes a frustrated sound. “Is this really the time?”

“Probably not,” Clint admits. He forces his fingers to work, and unties his left arm. From there, it’s quick work to get the rest of himself free. He gets to his feet and looks around. “Okay. We’re assuming there’s guards outside the door?”

Barnes nods. “Probably. Come help me.” Clint steps around the chair, and Barnes gapes at his arm. “Jesus, Barton. Is that from the ropes?”

“It’s fine,” Clint says, looking at his arm, watching as some blood rolls off it to splatter on the carpet. “Well, not _fine_. It hurts. But I’ll survive.”

He examines the left cuff, which is slowly pulsing with some kind of green light. “Yeah, looks like it’s sending some kind of signal to the arm to mess with the robotics. Also, it looks like they attached it _to_ the chair.” He tries to work his fingers in between the cuff and the chair, but there’s no space to do so, and it doesn’t budge when he pulls on it. “Huh. Wonder how they did that?”

“By all means,” Barnes says. “Let’s sit here and stare at it instead of solving the problem.”

“Stop yelling at me, it’s my birthday.” Clint sits back on his heels and reassesses the situation. “Okay. I’m guessing Montague’s got a key for these. Or was it one of the other assholes?”

“No, it’s Montague. Left inside jacket pocket.”

“That’s very specific, thank you.” He stands up. “Okay. I’m gonna go get it.”

“What?” Barnes snaps his head up. “No, you can’t leave me here.”

Clint looks at him, and then the chair. “Are you planning on fighting while tied to a chair?”

“If I have to.”

Clint rolls his eyes. “Just play the damsel in distress role for like, ten seconds, would you? I’m a competent professional, Barnes. I am perfectly capable of getting a key off an asshole named after a vegetable.”

Barnes looks down for a second, then says, “Your shoes are on the wrong feet.”

Clint looks down too. For a moment, he’s pretty sure Barnes is pulling his chain. But no, his shoes _are_ on the wrong feet. “Oops.” He thinks about swapping them, then decides against it. If he didn’t notice before, he’s not going to care now. “Give me a break, I was in a hurry.”

“In a hurry to steal my motorcycle, you mean.”

“Are you still pissed about that? You knew it wasn’t going to come with us, even if the mission had ended like it was supposed to.”

“I liked that bike,” Barnes mutters, looking petulant.

“Well, let’s get out of this alive, and then we can steal Cap’s when we get back. Sound good?”

“Fine. You’re still not going out there without backup.” He tugs at the chair with clear frustration. “Give me a minute, I can probably break this—”

Clint gets up. “First of all, the chair is heavy-duty metal, so no, you’re not. And secondly, do you think no one’s gonna hear you breaking a chair? Just sit quietly. I’ll be back before you’re out.”

Barnes looks up again, clearly making an attempt to murder-glare him into submission. “If you would just _wait_ , we could talk about this—”

“Nope.”

“Don’t you _dare_ walk out that door—”

“Oh, Barnes,” Clint says with a grin. “Who said anything about a door?”

He pulls the curtain aside on the window, then carefully eases it open, looking up and down. No guards. Nothing really to hold onto either, but he’s committed to this. At the very least, he needs to climb out of sight before making any mistakes. Last thing he needs to do is give Barnes more ammo to use against him.

Barnes is saying something behind him. Clint ignores him and pulls himself out the window. “Be right back,” he says, reaching up. There’s a little ledge he can hold onto. Maybe. If he can get upright from here, he can jump onto the lifeboat. Possibly. And from there, he can climb up the rope to the main deck. Potentially. And then from there—

Or, in a slightly safer manner, he could just drop into the water, swim around to the back of the boat, and get on that way.

“Yeah,” he says. “Actually, let’s do that. “ He resigns himself to spending the next several hours being wet and cold, and flips himself the rest of the way out the window.

The water is freezing, and his arm _burns_ when he submerges it. For a moment, Clint tries to be manly about both things. Then he gives up and screams his way back to the surface, because Barnes isn’t here to be a dick about it, and he’s underwater anyway. He cuts it off at the surface and carefully kicks his way to the side of the boat, keeping his eyes up. No one comes to investigate the splash, and he takes a moment to shake the water from his ears, mentally thanking Tony for making his hearing aids waterproof. Then he swims around the back.

There’s a guard back here on patrol. Clint waits until he pivots and looks the other way, then launches himself up and out of the water.

What he _means_ to do is tackle the guard from behind, strip his weapon, and knock him out. What actually happens is that his foot gets caught on the boat as he pushes up, which shortens his leap forward by a substantial amount. Instead of gracefully tackling the guy from behind, he flops onto the deck like a dead fish. The impact knocks the wind out of him, and he makes some undignified wheezing noise as he lands.

The guard instantly turns around. His eyes go wide as he sees Clint, and he fumbles at the inside of his jacket for his weapon.

“Should’ve had that out,” Clint says, or at least he tries to say. It likely sounds more like a sad whale gasp as his lungs try to take in air at the same time.

The guard gets his gun out just as Clint gets his feet under him. He doesn’t try for a stealth tackle this time; he just throws himself at the guy. There’s a quick fight, all awkward punches and short jabs. But Clint’s got his arms to work with this time, so it’s almost laughably easy to pry the gun out of the guy’s hand before pistol-whipping him in the head with it.

“Sorry,” he mutters, clambering to his feet again. He probes at what’s probably going to be a nasty black eye, then adds, “Not that sorry, though.”

He drags the guard off to the side and hides him behind a giant couch, then carefully creeps up to the main deck. He stays low, wincing at the soreness in his stomach. _Really glad Barnes didn’t see that_.

He takes out two more guards on the upper deck. One of them he just shoves overboard, the other he gets from behind and presses the gun to his head. “Hi there,” he says, forcing the guy to lean backwards over the railing. “Wanna tell me where your vegetable friend is?”

The guy spits a string of curses in a language Clint vaguely recognizes and spits at him. “I will tell you nothing,” he snarls. “Nothing!”

“Come on,” Clint says conversationally, pushing a little harder. The guy gasps in pain. “It’s my birthday, work with me here.”

“It’s your birthday?” asks another voice. Clint looks to the side, and watches as Cale Montague steps out onto the deck from behind a glass door. He’s wearing a _bathrobe_ , of all things, and carrying a glass of champagne like he’s a fucking James Bond villain. “I didn’t know that.”

“I don’t make a big deal out of them,” Clint says, shoving the guard overboard. He aims the gun at Montague instead. The sunglasses are gone, revealing pale green eyes. It’s a little unnerving, especially when paired with the pale blond hair. Makes him look like a snake. “Where’s the key?”

“For what?” He takes a sip of his champagne.

“For the mag cuffs, asshole.”

“Oh.” He sounds very unconcerned about the fact that his life is in imminent danger, which means he’s either a very good actor, or he has a very good reason not to be concerned. It’s the second one that worries Clint. “It’s safe. You don’t have to worry about it.” He looks at Clint’s arm. “You’re bleeding.”

“I’m aware,” Clint says, suddenly reminded of how much his arm _hurts_. “Where is it?”

“It is no longer on the ship. I know what a danger your friend can be. As soon as he was secured, I sent the key to his restraints offsite.”

“That hurts my feelings,” Clint says. “I’m dangerous too.”

“Clearly.”

Clint hates the way Montague’s looking at him, like he’s humoring a child. He _is_ dangerous, dammit. Just because he’s got his shoes on wrong and he looks a little beat-up doesn’t mean he should be underestimated.

 _You like being underestimated,_ he reminds himself. _That’s how you get away with shit._

Montague sips his champagne again, then gestures to Clint’s chest. “You may wish to look down.”

He does, and immediately spots the little red dot moving across his wet shirt. Two more join them after a moment. Clint sighs. “More snipers?”

“Yes.” Montague raises an eyebrow. “I’m not stupid, Mr. Barton. I had precautions in place in case one of you made an escape. Put the gun down, please.”

“Well, at least you’re getting my name right,” Clint says, setting the gun on the ground. He kicks it over to Montague. “So what’s the plan here? Why bother taking us alive?”

“I thought you didn’t want to hear my evil plan?” He finishes his champagne as five more guards pour onto the scene, two of them dripping wet and wearing pissed-off expressions. Clint bites his cheek to keep from smirking as they all point guns at him.

“I was wrong. Don’t tell Barnes, though. I’ll never hear the end of it.”

He really doesn’t care about the evil plan, but the longer he can keep Montague talking, the longer he stays alive. And Montague looks like the kind of person who likes to keep talking.

Sure enough, he holds up a hand. The guards keep their weapons on him, but they don’t touch him. “Come with me,” Montague says, and goes back through the glass doors. Clint follows, keeping his hands visible and his posture as non-threatening as possible. Last thing he needs is a bullet wound from some twitchy trigger finger.

It’s a bedroom. There’s a couch, and another electric fireplace, and a giant four-poster bed. Clint stares at the pair of fuzzy handcuffs visible on the bedposts, then says, “You’re not really my type, Montague.”

“That is not for you.” Montague points at the couch. “Come. Sit. Would you like some champagne? It seems the least I can do. Consider it a birthday gift.”

“Pass.”

He gets one anyway, and the guards force him down onto the couch. Clint scowls up at them. Montague sits across from him and raises his own glass. “Happy birthday.”

“Fuck off.”

“Alright then. To business.” He sets the glass down. “You want to know why you are both alive?”

“I’ll admit to being professionally curious.”

“I took you alive,” Montague says, “because I have great respect for both you and Barnes. I’ve heard of your work before. It seemed...wrong, in a way, to merely kill you.”

“Thanks, I’m very flattered.” Clint spins the champagne glass in his hand. “What’s the plan? Gonna keep us like pets on your fancy yacht?”

“Not at all,” Montague says. “This is a temporary situation. Once I have some other things cleared up, I will bring you both to the Amalfi coast. There is an annual event that occurs there. An auction, if you will. I intend to put both of you up for bidding.”

Clint stares at him, feeling a little sick. “You’re going to...sell us?” It’s not what he was expecting, but in a way, he’s not surprised. The whole reason they were monitoring that Wagner guy was because SHIELD suspected he had ties to the criminal underworld. It would make sense, then, that his biggest business rival would be involved as well. He’s heard of this auction, too, although only in vague whispers and rumors from various missions. Never anything substantial. It being on the Amalfi coast is the most solid piece of information he’s ever gotten on it.

Montague nods. “You have no idea how valuable you are. The former Winter Soldier and Hawkeye? As individuals, you are both worth a fair amount. As a team, even more so.” He gestures to Clint. “Clearly, you are more clever than I gave you credit for, seeing as how quickly you managed to escape. I was thinking it would take you longer.”

Clint feels even more sick. “You _wanted_ me to get out?”

“Consider it a test of your skills, in a way. I’ve personally seen your friend in action. You were somewhat of an unknown to me.” He raises his champagne glass. “Well done.”

“Fuck you,” Clint says. He starts to get up, but one of the guards pushes him back down. “If you really think I’m going to sit here and let you cart us off to an _auction_ —”

“But you are,” Montague says. “You have no choice otherwise. You are outnumbered and weaponless. As I said in the street, you must both arrive alive. I would also like you to arrive unharmed, but that is not necessarily required. There is a medical facility that fixes imperfections before placing items on the market. Some breakage is expected when transporting such dangerous cargo. You understand.” He holds out a hand, and one of the guards puts a radio in it. Montague presses a button on the side. “Christopher, would you put him on please?”

“Yes, sir.”

There’s a scuffling noise, and then Barnes’s voice echoes through the room very clearly. “What the fuck is this?”

“Hello, Mr. Barnes,” Montague says. “I have your friend here with me.”

A pause, and then, “Barton?”

“Yeah,” Clint says. “I’m here. There’s been some setbacks.”

Barnes sounds relieved. “I fucking told you not to go without me.”

“Metal chair and dead arm,” Clint reminds him. “I had to try.”

“Are you okay?”

“It’s turning out to not be one of my better birthdays, but yeah. I’m alive.”

“How’s your arm?”

“Fucking hurts.”

Montague holds up a hand. “I have been explaining the situation to your friend,” he says. “Now that I have you both on the line, I would like to make clear the consequences of any further attempts to escape.” He locks eyes with Clint, then says, “Christopher, please shoot Mr. Barnes somewhere non-vital.”

Clint jumps up. “Leave him alone, don’t you fucking dare—”

“Two places,” Montague says, eyes still on Clint.

With a superhuman effort, Clint forces himself back down onto the couch, channeling his inner Barnes murder-glare. He flinches as the sound of two gunshots comes over the radio, followed by a choked-off scream.

“Barnes,” he calls. “Barnes, you okay?”

There’s a long pause, during which Clint nearly bites through his tongue while trying to hold still. Finally, Barnes’s voice comes over the radio. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m fine.”

“You don’t sound fine.”

“This asshole just _shot_ me, Barton. What do you want, a song and dance? I’ll live.”

“Excuse me for being worried—”

Montague pulls the radio away. “That’s enough of that,” he says. “Now. Do you understand the situation?”

“I get it,” Clint says tiredly. “Be a good boy, or you hurt him some more. Fine. I’ll behave.”

He’s lying, but he also doesn’t want to be responsible for them shooting Barnes anymore. He’ll get another chance to get away. This isn’t the moment to be stupid.

Barnes’s voice comes back on, sounding distant and pained. “Barton, don’t worry about me. If you get a shot, you take it.”

“I really don’t want you dead, Barnes.”

“Careful, Barton. If I listen past the subtext, it almost sounds like you like me.”

“I don’t,” Clint says. “I just don’t want to be stuck carrying your dead body off this boat when I escape. You weigh _so_ much.”

“Are you calling me fat again?”

“Maybe.” Clint’s fists are clenched hard enough that he can feel his fingernails cutting into his palm.

Montague rolls his eyes and cuts off Barnes’s response. “That’s enough,” he says, irritation plain in his voice. “Christopher, please provide Mr. Barnes with the minimum medical care, and update me in an hour.” He clicks the radio off and hands it back to one of the guards.

“We’re like this all the time,” Clint says. “You might want to think twice about traveling with us anywhere. We can and will bicker you to death. We’re pros at it.”

“For the amount of money you will bring in, I suspect I can manage.” He gestures to the champagne glass. “Please. Drink. Happy birthday.”

“I hate champagne,” Clint says, setting the glass down.

“What do you like?”

“Coffee.”

“That can be arranged.” Montague snaps his fingers, and one of the guards peels off to disappear through the door.

Clint looks around, trying to come up with a plan. Any plan at all. But they’re not stupid, these guards. They’re spaced in a manner that even if he managed to take down one of them, the others would be able to shoot him. And then they’d probably hurt Barnes more, which he definitely doesn’t want to happen.

He’s surprised at the strength of that statement. It’s not just in a “he’s my teammate and I want him safe for backup reasons.” It’s more than that. He, the actual Clint Barton, doesn’t want Bucky Barnes to be hurt. Especially not because of stupid shit that Clint is doing.

Clint doesn’t know what to do about that thought, so he just pulls his usual stunt and shoves the feelings away, never to be examined again. He’s just being stupid. Nothing could ever happen between them, anyway. They can’t make it five minutes into _anything_ without biting each others’ heads off.

 _Could shut him up by kissing him,_ some part of his brain offers, and Clint immediately shuts it down hard. _Stop it. It’s not the time._

Except now the image is there, front and center in his mind, and he can’t get rid of it. He wonders how Barnes kisses, if it would be as intense as the rest of him, or if maybe he’s a little gentler about it—

A slap across his face brings him back to reality, and Clint blinks. “Sorry,” he says, not sorry at all. “Were you still talking? I got bored.”

Montague looks pissed, which Clint counts as a personal victory. “Your coffee,” is all he says, and Clint looks at the mug in front of him. It smells like heaven. He’s not going to drink it, but he can at least appreciate it.

Underneath him, the floor seems to vibrate. Montague perks up. “Ah,” he says. “We are leaving. Finally.”

Clint looks out the window. He’s right. The pier is getting smaller, the buildings slowly moving past. “Great. On our way to Amalfi, then?”

“Yes.” Montague smiles at him. “It will take several days. Plenty of time for us to get to know each other.”

“Uh-huh. Are you going to keep Barnes tied up the whole time? You know he’s not really a robot, right? He has to eat and stuff like the rest of us.”

“It will be arranged. In the meantime, please. Relax. It is your birthday, after all. I would like for us to be civil to each other.”

“If you’re trying to give me a birthday present, I’d really prefer something cool. Like a Ferrari. I asked Widow last year, and she said something along the lines of not trusting me to drive it safely. Which I think is unfair. Just because I’ve crashed three Quinjets doesn’t mean—”

“Drink your coffee, Barton.”

Clint picks up the mug, mind racing. If they’re moving away from the dock, that means the snipers are probably no longer a threat. Which leaves just the six guys in here, plus Montague, and then any others, plus whoever’s guarding Barnes.

He pretends to take a sip of the coffee as a half-baked, probably terrible idea forms in his mind. It’ll likely will end with both him and Barnes being shot some more, but if he can pull it off—

Montague is watching him closely. “Your schemes will come to nothing,” he says. “I am prepared for every possible outcome. You will regret any attempts to escape, and so will Mr. Barnes.”

“Yeah,” Clint says with a sigh. “I’m sure we will.”

Then he leans forward and throws his coffee in Montague’s face.

The hot liquid hits him perfectly, right in the eyes, and he lets out a horrific scream. Clint doesn’t stop to look. He flips backwards over the couch, knocking down the guy behind him. They hit the ground in a tangle of limbs and Clint quickly extracts himself, rolling up to his feet and kicking the guy in the head at the same time.

Three more advance on him, leaving two to grab Montague and hustle him out. Clint notes the door they use as he dives to his left, just narrowly missing a bullet to his hip. His hand closes around the bottle of champagne, still in its ice bucket, and he whips it at one of the guys. It hits him in the chest, and he staggers a bit. Clint ducks a punch from one of the other guards and kicks the guy in the nuts, then slams the ice bucket on his head. _One down._

He reaches for the guy’s gun, but a foot slams into his face before he can reach it. Clint sprawls backwards, blood gushing from his nose. “Hey!”

“That was a mistake,” another guard says, putting his foot back on the floor. He levels his gun at Clint’s knee.

Clint immediately rolls out of the way and scrambles to his feet, looking around frantically for another weapon. His eyes light on a nearby statue of an elephant, perched on the mantle of the fireplace. Clint grabs it and hurls it across the room, hitting the guy in the head with perfect precision. The guard collapses, and Clint ducks behind the couch as the last one shoots at him. He swipes at the blood on his face, then gathers himself and jumps over the couch with a ragged yell.

It’s not his best tackle, he’s a little off centered. But he manages to knock the guard into the coffee table. From there, it only takes a couple of punches to knock him out. Clint pries the gun out of his hand, then gently probes at his face. It hurts like hell, but at least his nose isn’t broken.

He takes a moment to pick a giant shard of glass out of his left hand, then collects the other guns and shoves them in various places about his person. He also finds the jacket Montague was wearing, and a quick search reveals the mag cuff key. He crams it into his own pocket and staggers out the door. First order of business is to find Barnes, and then—

There’s a loud gunshot to his left, and suddenly a bullet tears through his thigh. Clint yelps and stumbles, collapsing to the deck. “Fuck. Fuck!”

“I told you,” someone says, and Clint twists around to see Montague stumble onto the deck. His face is bright red, and he looks pissed as hell. One hand is firmly wrapped around a guard, and the other is holding the radio. “You will regret this. That was remarkably stupid.”

“What else is new,” Clint says. He presses a hand to the wound on his thigh. Not lethal, but very bloody and very painful. _Fuck_. “Doing stupid things is how I live my life.”

“I can see that.” Montague presses the button. “Christopher—”

Clint’s hand comes up before he even realizes it’s happening. There’s a series of gunshots in quick succession, _one two three_ , and then the gun clicks. Clint drops it on the deck and watches as Montague falls to his knees beside his newly-dead bodyguard, staring at his own hand. The radio clatters to the ground, surrounded by blood and a couple chunks of fingers. It’s gross as hell, but Clint feels nothing except a nasty satisfaction. “I told you to leave him alone,” he says.

“Why, you—” Montague starts, and Clint rolls his eyes. He carefully drags himself to his feet, biting back a scream as he puts weight on his leg.

“Where’s Barnes?”

“Go to hell,” Montague snarls.

Clint limps over to him and pulls out one of the other guns, pressing it against his head. “You wanted to see me work,” he reminds him. “Remember? That was the whole reason you let me escape. You wanted a demonstration of my talents.” He waves an arm around. “What do you think?”

“I will _kill—_ ”

Clint reaches down and drags him upright. “Save it. Take me to Barnes, or you’re gonna get a hell of a lot worse than missing fingers. You might have to keep _us_ alive, but I sure as hell don’t have the same restrictions.” He shoves him. “Walk.”

Montague growls and snarls, but leads Clint back into the interior of the yacht. Going down stairs makes Clint nearly cry, but he manages to keep it together. They turn a corner, and then they’re in some kind of short hallway. There’s two guards outside a door.

“Tell them to stand down,” Clint says, pressing his gun into Montague’s head. “Now.”

Montague gives the order. The guards toss their guns down the hallway in the opposite direction, and put their hands up.

Clint motions towards another door. “What’s in there?”

“Supply closet,” Montague grits out.

“Good. Get inside.”

It’s a tight fit for three grown men, but Clint doesn’t really give a shit. He slams the door shut and locks it, ignoring Montague’s protests and threats. He yanks on the door once, satisfied with it for the time being, then limps down the hallway to Barnes’s door. He throws it open with a clang, shooting the guard inside before he even gets his gun up.

“Hi honey,” Clint says, staggering over the doorway. “I’m home.” He pulls the key out of his pocket and moves around to where Barnes can see him. There’s a bloody bandage on his right shoulder, and another over his left calf, but otherwise he looks relatively okay. Clint can’t help the wave of relief that sweeps over him.

Barnes apparently feels the same, judging by the look on his face. “Barton. You’re alive.” The relief slowly fades into concern as he looks at the various injuries Clint is sporting. His arm has stopped bleeding, at least. A minor concern compared with the bullet hole in his leg.

“Yup.” Clint looks at the key in his shaking hand, then moves to the cuffs. “Sort of.” He frees Barnes’s right arm, then pushes the key at him and collapses against the back wall. “You get the rest.”

“Yeah.” Barnes quickly pops the lock on his left arm. There’s a little whirring sound, and he winces in pain. “Fuck, _ow_.”

“You okay?”

“Pins and needles. But in a really uncomfortable way. Hard to explain.”

“Metal arms get pins and needles?”

“They do if they’ve been out of commission for a few hours.” Barnes unties his feet, then steps over to Clint. He kneels down and gently probes at the bullet wound. “Not lethal. You’ll be okay.”

“Fucking hurts,” Clint says.

“I know.” Barnes’s voice is quiet. “I’m gonna wrap it up, okay? Hold still and stay awake.” He reaches out and drags the guard’s body over, then rips a clean section of his shirt for a bandage. Clint removes his bloodied hand from the wound and lets Barnes do his thing.

“Okay,” Barnes says, tying it off. “That’s the best I can do for now. Where’s Montague?”

“Supply closet down the hall with two guards. No guns but they might have other weapons, I didn’t search them. Think I got everyone else.”

Barnes nods. “Okay. Will you be alright here for a minute?”

“What?” Clint starts to get up. “No, I can help. Give me a hand, help me up.”

“Clint,” Barnes says. “You’ve been shot. Let me handle the rest.”

“You’ve been shot too!”

“I heal faster. I’m functional. You can barely walk. Stay here.”

“No fucking way.” Clint starts to struggle to his feet. “I can do it—"

Barnes pushes him back down. “Nope. It’s your turn to play damsel.” He smirks at Clint. “Give me ten minutes. I’ll take care of Montague and sweep the yacht for others.”

Clint starts to get up again, then gives up. “Fine. Whatever.”

Barnes looks like he wants to say something else, but then he shakes his head. “Alright. I’ll be back.”

Clint blinks. “Was that...did you just quote _Terminator_ at me?”

“Maybe.”

“So proud.” Clint reaches up and grabs his wrist. “Be careful, okay? I just went through a lot of shit to keep you alive.”

Barnes laughs. “Watch it, Barton. If I listen past the subtext, it almost sounds like you care about me.”

“I do care about you,” Clint says, the words slipping out without permission.

There’s a beat of silence where they both stare at each other, surprised as hell. Clint scrambles to come up with some sarcastic remark to follow that, something to break the tension suddenly between them, but he can’t think of anything. He’s not even sure he wants to think of anything. It’s the truth, he realizes. He does care. He cares a lot.

“Okay,” Barnes says. He swallows, the motion visible in his throat. “Okay. I’ll...I’ll be careful.” He gently pries Clint’s hand off his wrist, and puts his own hand on the side of Clint’s face, thumbing over a bruise there. “I’ll be careful, and you stay awake. Understand?”

“Got it,” Clint says. “Go quick, I don’t know how long that door will last.”

Barnes nods. Then he’s gone, leaving Clint feeling strangely alone. There’s a clanging noise outside, and the sounds of fighting, and then two rapid gunshots.

“Barnes!” Clint yells, worry coming back in full force.

“I’m fine,” comes the answer. “Guards are dead, I got the guy. Sit tight.”

Clint lets out a long breath and settles back against the wall. His leg still hurts, but it’s almost a background pain now, pulsing in time with his heartbeat. He’s too preoccupied with the way Barnes had looked when Clint admitted to caring about him, and the gentle way his hand had rested on Clint’s face. Almost like he cared too.

He wonders if Barnes has ever thought about kissing him, the way Clint was thinking about it earlier, and is both surprised and not surprised to find a part of him hoping he has.

“Fuck,” he sighs, turning his head to look at the dead guard. “I think I’ve got feelings for a robot.”

The guard just looks at him. _You’re an idiot_ , those dead eyes seem to say.

“Yeah,” Clint says. “You’re probably right.”

He loses track of time after that. Eventually, Barnes reappears at the door. “You still alive?”

“I think so.”

“Good.” He walks over. “How’s the leg?”

“Hurts.”

“You’re gonna spend the next three weeks bitching about it, aren’t you?”

“Do you expect anything less?”

“Nah,” Barnes says, and he grins at Clint. It’s a real smile, the kind that changes his whole face from scary murderbot to friendly human, and Clint can’t help but return it. “Come on. Let’s get you upstairs.”

Clint takes the offered arm. “Where’s the vegetable man?”

“Montague? He’s tied up at the moment. Literally.”

“The guards?”

“Dead or overboard.”

They reach the stairs, and Clint looks at them with dismay. Barnes notices. “Want me to carry you up?”

“Fuck you,” Clint says automatically. “But kind of, yes.”

Barnes laughs a little and picks Clint up bridal-style, carrying him up the stairs with ease. “I got you. Just relax.”

“No one knows about this,” Clint says, face turning red, not entirely from embarrassment. “No one. You tell them I gritted my teeth and walked up like a man.”

“Of course.”

Barnes doesn’t set him down at the top. He carries Clint all the way over to the room where he’d busted out of before. The room is still in shambles, but the bodies are gone. “I threw them overboard,” Barnes says before Clint can ask. “Nice work, by the way.”

“Thank you.”

He sets Clint on the couch. Over on the bed, Montague really is tied up, arms and legs twisting against at least nine different zip ties. There’s duct tape slapped over his mouth too. Clint nods approvingly and flashes him a middle finger.

Barnes hands him a pillow and a satellite phone. “We’re on autopilot,” he says. “I took out the guy driving, but I’m not sure how to stop the boat. Call SHIELD, see if they can use this to determine our position and help us. I’m gonna do a sweep again, look for any stragglers. Maybe see if I can find our weapons.”

“Okay.” Clint settles into the couch. “Sounds good.”

It’s weird, this whole ‘getting along’ thing. Clint misses the bickering, almost, but he has to admit it’s nice to be working as a team. Barnes nods at him, then vanishes out one of the broken glass panels.

Clint dials Natasha’s number from memory. She answers on the third ring. “Who the hell is this?”

“Wow, Nat. Is that how you always answer the phone?”

“Clint!” Her voice is both relieved and exasperated, which is the combination he usually gets from her. “Where the hell are you? Where’s James?”

“Barnes is here. We’re on some asshole’s yacht.” He briefly describes the situation to her, including what he’d learned about the Amalfi auction. Nat listens without a word.

When he’s done, she’s quiet for a moment longer, then says, “Okay. I think the safest place for you two right now is right where you are. I’ve got people tracking the boat already.”

“But—”

“Don’t argue. Keep Montague under control. I need to take care of some things on this end. I’ll call this number again when we have a plan in place.” She pauses, then says, “Are you okay?”

“I got shot,” Clint admits. “We both did. We’ll live, though.”

“Good.” Another pause. “Please don’t kill each other before I get there.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Clint says. “I think we’re actually getting along? It’s weird.” He leaves off the rest of it—the look on Barnes’s face, the way Clint kind of wants to kiss him—but somehow, Natasha picks up on it anyway.

“Oh,” is all she says, but the tone is knowing, and Clint immediately blushes. “I told you before, Clint. He’s not a bad guy.”

“I knew he wasn’t,” Clint snaps, trying to recover his pride. “Don’t read into this, Nat. It’s probably a temporary thing anyway.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Stop that.”

“Okay.” He can hear the smile in her voice. “Sit tight, Clint. We’ll call you.”

She hangs up, and Clint drops the phone, feeling very off-balance. Which is pretty par for the course when it comes to talking with Nat, but this feels a little different somehow.

Barnes comes back a few minutes later. “Happy birthday,” he says. “I got you a present.”

Clint looks up in time to catch the bow that’s tossed at him, followed by the quiver. “Oh my god,” he says happily, running his fingers over both of them. “Hi, baby. It’s okay, you’re safe now. Did they hurt you?”

Barnes snorts and leans against the wall. “Are you gonna start singing to it again?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Clint says, but there’s no venom to it. He carefully sets them to the side. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” He comes over and sits on the couch, skimming gentle fingers over the bandage. “How’s the leg?”

“Hurts like a bitch,” Clint says, knocking his hand away.

“Did you call Nat?”

“Yeah.” He gives an abbreviated version of the conversation, leaving out the parts where Nat managed to read his mind from a million miles away. “So we’re stuck here for a bit,” he finishes.

Barnes nods, then gets up without further comment and vanishes through a side door into what looks like a bathroom. He comes back a moment later and tosses something at Clint. “Here.”

Clint fumbles the catch. “What are—” He finally gets it in his hand and looks at the label. “Vicodin?”

“Should help with the leg,” Barnes says. “There’s not a ton of them, but you can at least take the edge off. I was going to wait for SHIELD, but since we’re stuck here...”

“What about you?”

“Don’t need any.”

“You got shot too.”

“Yeah, but I’m tougher than you are.” He ducks with a grin as Clint throws a pillow at him. “Hey now. I’m being nice; there’s no need to get violent.”

“You’re being an asshole,” Clint tells him, but he shakes out a couple of pills anyway, swallowing them dry. “But thank you.”

“Yeah.”

Clint leans against the couch and waits for the pills to kick in. It doesn’t take long. The throbbing edge of pain starts to fade away, and Clint finds himself able to concentrate on other things. Like the way Barnes is standing, casually leaning against the door, eyes fixed on the distant shoreline. Clint can’t take his eyes off the long stretch of his legs, or the way his thumb is hooked in his pocket, or how the moonlight is reflecting off his metal arm—

“You’re staring,” Barnes murmurs without looking at him.

“You’re hot,” Clint says, then immediately slaps a hand over his mouth.

“You’re high,” Barnes says, but he’s laughing, and yep, Clint _really_ likes the way he smiles. He’s so screwed. “You need anything?”

“Water?”

Barnes digs around in the mini fridge, then brings him a bottle of water. He kneels by the couch and cracks it open. “Want help drinking it?”

“Absolutely not,” Clint says, trying to recover his dignity. He takes a swig of it, misses his mouth entirely, and ends up pouring it on his lap. “Aw, water, no.”

Barnes laughs again. “You sure?”

“Not a word out of you,” Clint says, trying again. He makes it this time. Barnes just watches with an amused look on his face, and tugs it away after a moment.

“Not too much,” he says. “Take it slow.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Clint sighs, but he’s distracted again by how close Barnes’s face is to him, and he thinks again about what it would be like to kiss him. Barnes is looking at him too, something unreadable in his eyes, and Clint wonders if he’s thinking the same thing.

He reaches out, carefully fists his hand in Barnes’s shirt, and tugs. Barnes comes forward easily, almost willingly, and then—

And then they’re kissing. It’s not like Clint thought it would be at all. He’s always assumed if they ever did something like this, it would be pure hate sex, full of teeth and biting and rage. But this is soft, and it’s nice, and Barnes tastes like everything Clint’s ever loved, like everything he’s ever dreamed of.

They pull apart after a moment, both breathing raggedly. Clint searches Barnes’s gaze, not really sure what he’s hoping to find.

Then Barnes makes a soft noise and pulls him forward into another kiss. Clint sighs against him and lets him take control, lets him deepen it into something more. He lets go of Barnes’s shirt and reaches up, winding one hand into his hair while the other slides over his back, feeling the shift of muscles underneath him. Barnes groans low in his throat, pressing Clint backwards into the couch until he’s almost flat on his back.

They kiss forever, until Clint is nearly dizzy with it, and don’t break apart until the muffled sounds of protests finally break through to their little moment. Barnes pulls back, eyes fixed on Clint, then turns his head enough to look over at the bed. “Keep it down,” he orders Montague. “I’m in the middle of something here.”

“Yeah,” Clint adds, propping himself up a bit so he can see. Montague is sitting up on the bed, eyes practically bulging with fury as he glares at them. “It’s my birthday. Shut up and let me have this.”

Barnes laughs, and Clint pulls him back down, already missing the taste of him. _Addicted_ , he thinks hazily, sliding his hand under Barnes’s shirt so he can feel the heat of skin. _You’re so screwed, Barton. One kiss and you’re already a goner._

Except then his leg slips off the couch and ruins the moment. Or rather, the muffled scream he makes ruins the moment. Barnes immediately gets off him, trading the kissing for fussing over him, and for a little bit, Clint actually isn’t sure which he prefers.

Probably the kissing. But the fussing is nice too.

Barnes ends up locking Montague into the bathroom, meaning that Clint gets the bed _and_ he doesn’t have to listen to Montague’s muffled threats. Barnes carries him over there, then props him up with pillows until he’s sitting upright.

“That okay?” Barnes asks.

“Yeah,” Clint says. “Thanks, Barnes.”

“You can call me Bucky, you know.”

Clint sticks out his hand. “Hiya, Bucky. I’m Clint.”

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky says, rolling his eyes, but Clint catches the hint of a smile as he gets up. “I’m gonna wrap your leg some more, okay? You bled through this one already.” He grabs an extra sheet and starts tearing it into strips. Then he wraps one around the wound carefully, wincing every time Clint does. The Vicodin takes the edge off, but it still hurts like hell.

“So,” Bucky says after a moment, eyes on his task. “Was this still one of your better birthdays?”

Clint thinks. “Well,” he says. “It certainly wasn’t the worst.”

“What was the worst?”

“Budapest.”

Bucky winces. “That was on your _birthday_?”

“Sure was.”

“I am so sorry.”

Clint shrugs. “Yeah, it was a rough time. Compared to that, this is still probably one of the better ones.” He waves a hand around. “I mean, it started kind of sucky, but I’m ending it by kissing a hot guy on a private yacht. So all in all, I’ll chalk it up to a win.”

Bucky looks up at him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Clint lets out a long breath as he ties off the bandage.

“Sorry. I know that hurts.” He laughs. “Want me to punch you? It’ll take your mind off your leg.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Clint says, grinning anyway. “You wanna distract me, get over here and kiss me again.”

“I can do that,” Bucky says, crawling onto the bed. He arranges himself carefully, trying not to disturb Clint’s leg. It’s almost cute. Would be more cute if Clint wasn’t so ready to kiss him.

“Get down here,” he growls. “I’m not made of glass, I can take a little pain.”

“Sure you can, tough guy,” Bucky says, hovering just out of reach. “You’re a competent professional, after all.”

“Fucking hate you,” Clint says, reaching to grab his shirt again.

“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky says with a grin, and leans down. “I hate you too.” 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)


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